Maker's Mark
by Xanoka
Summary: It's Christmas 1945 and Henry wants to get Abigail something special... For the AO3 Yuletide 2015 exchange. My first Forever fanfic, please let me know what you think!


"Merry Christmas, darling."

Her eyes lit up as she took the box, glancing up at him enquiringly. Her other hand hesitated over the bow.

"Go on, open it!" he urged, grinning like a little boy.

She smiled and pulled the ribbon free, carefully unfolded the paper and set it to one side. He knew she would iron it later and put it away for next year.

She stilled, staring almost fearfully at the small, black jewellery box.

"Henry…"

" _Open_ it." He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Abigail seemed to steel herself, then did as he asked. The case opened to reveal a simple silver necklace and pendant, with matching earrings, resting on a velvet cushion.

"Oh, _Henry_." One tentative finger brushed them lovingly. "They're _beautiful_. But Henry, I _told_ you I didn't need anything like this. It's too much!"

She made a motion, as if to pass the box back to him, but he caught her wrist gently, pressing it back towards her.

"And I told _you_ , I had some money saved away. I wanted to get you something special for our first Christmas together. They're antiques, you know." He looked slightly regretful, before adding. "I'm sorry it isn't diamonds, but with Abe and the war…"

Abigail huffed and hit him lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh, hush! As if I would expect _diamonds_ , of all things, when we can barely find _butter_!"

"So you like them, then?"

"I _love_ them, darling." She set the case down carefully on the side table and pulled him into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank you so much!"

He nuzzled her hair, breathing in her scent. A slow smile spread across his lips as he kissed her neck.

He reached over and deftly lifted the necklace from its place.

"Shall I help you put this on, Mrs Morgan?"

Abigail turned in his arms. A bubble of laughter escaped her as she lifted her hair for him, exposing her throat.

He leaned in close, dropping a light kiss on her shoulder as he placed the necklace around her neck.

The metal was cold, and Abigail shivered as his warm breath brushed her skin.

The moment stretched and he didn't move.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yes." Frustration drenched the word. "It's this confounded clasp," he admitted. "It's a little – blast it! – stiff!"

Abigail tried not to laugh. She really did, clapping one hand over her mouth to hold it in. Her shaking shoulders gave her away.

"Yes, you can laugh." He sounded resigned. "Another wasted romantic gesture."

"N-no, Henry, not wasted!"

"I had hoped for a little suavity. But, alas. The peril of purchasing an antique, I suppose."

She caught his hand and kissed it, smiling up at him through her eyelashes.

"But that's what makes it so romantic, doesn't it? All its stories, the people it's touched, the places it's been…"

She waited, and Henry did not disappoint her.

"The set dates from the eighteenth century!" He exclaimed. "Probably around the year 1733. You'll love this, Abbie. The jeweller who made it had a shop a stone's throw from here! The antique dealer had the records to prove it. Look, you can see the maker's mark here!"

He proceeded to tell her all about the history of the set, while Abigail listened with patient interest.

Eventually, Abe stirred from his little nest of cushions on their worn sofa, breaking short the impromptu lecture.

There followed the obligatory scramble to prepare a bottle of warm milk before the baby could wake up and scream properly.

Finally, Henry settled himself down beside his nursing wife, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa. She relaxed against him, resting her head on his arm and leaning into his side with a contented sigh.

"You know, Henry," she said, at length. "You know so much about _history_ , and _geography_ and so many other things. Perhaps you should open your own shop one day."

He laughed, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "Should I?"

Abigail held his eye, then smiled and leaned in for a kiss, before turning back to Abe.

"Yes," she said, with a playful note of finality. "You should."

* * *

"You were right, Abe. You guys sure do have a _lot_ of junk."

"Excuse _me_ ," Henry appeared from behind an armoire, his face a picture of outrage. "Detective! We do _not_ sell junk!"

"Don't listen to him, Jo!" Abe called from his armchair in the corner. "Most of this stuff is worth peanuts. That sap over there just can't bear to burn any of it."

"Nonsense! I am not sentimental, Abraham. I value history. There is a difference."

"Sure there is, you walking dinosaur." He winked roguishly at Jo, a 'can-you-believe-this-guy?' look on his face.

"Well, I think my mom would appreciate it, at least. Thanks for the invite, Henry,"

"You're welcome, Jo. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee?"

"Coffee. Thanks."

They both ignored Abe's muttering. ("It's a _store_. You don't need to be _invited_.")

As Henry disappeared upstairs, Jo turned to peer into a glass display cabinet of knick-knacks.

"Geez, you're brave to ask for _coffee_." Abe had joined her. "He'll probably call you a heathen, you know."

"No, I wouldn't, Abraham," Henry called as he descended the stairs, bearing a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of shortbread. "Since Jo is our invited guest, and that would be very rude."

He carefully set the tray down on a side table, adding a sugar lump to one cup, before offering it to Jo.

"Black, one sugar."

"Thanks, you remembered! Though, I guess, I should expect no less from Sherlock over here."

She smiled at him over the rim of her mug, watching as he flushed and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well. Have you found anything you like, Jo? I'm sure we could _negotiate_ a discount with Abe if you did."

Henry smiled winningly. Abe snorted and was steadfastly ignored.

"Actually, this is nice."

Jo was pointing at a necklace, nestled among a collection of gaudy costume jewellery. It was plain silver with a small engraved pendant, splendid in its simplicity.

"Oh," Henry's face seemed to cloud over. Then he rallied. "Ah, yes. That _is_ a rather nice piece."

He fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the case before carefully reaching in to nudge a collection of bangles aside. His hand hovered momentarily, before picking up the chain and lifting it from its place.

He cradled the pendant in the palm of his hand as he showed it to her.

"You're right, Jo. This _would_ make a lovely Christmas present. It's eighteenth century, pure silver, crafted by a silversmith in London. If you look, you can see his maker's mark here."


End file.
